


Out for Blood

by happinesssdeceit (crescenttwins)



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gang World, Bad Ending, Explicit Language, Gun Violence, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescenttwins/pseuds/happinesssdeceit
Summary: Crime!AU: Five encounters between Agon and Hiruma.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inelegantly (Lir)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/gifts).



> By the time I finished, this ended up being more mafia/crime!AU than mindgames, but I hope you still enjoy this treat! <3 
> 
> Also please please check the tags for warnings on language and violence, since this is rather dark!

**[00:04] Out of Boredom**

For all their rumored prowess, the Shinryuji Nagas are  _ trash _ , Agon thinks, flicking blood off of his brass knuckles. His twin is staring at him, eyes wide and lips set in disapproval, but  _ Unko-chan _ won’t say anything when the boss is watching. 

The men on the ground in front of him aren’t getting up, and for once the gang hall is quiet enough for Agon to hear his own fucking thoughts.

“I’m leaving,” Agon says, mocking, even as he slides his jacket on. 

No one tries to stop him, not while his knuckledusters are settled against his skin, blood still lingering in the grooves of the cut metal. He wishes they would-- it would be more interesting than listening to bullshit about  _ honor _ and  _ duty _ and the little rules that only weak men box themselves into because they don’t have the balls to protect it themselves.

Agon slides his sunglasses on when he exits, the world taking on a slightly tinted red, and then neatly sidesteps the line of bullets that brush past him. 

“Terrible fucking aim as always, trash.” Agon says to the still air, even as he hears screams of confusion starting up in the warehouse behind him. “If you wanna take out the Shinryuji Naga gang, you’d best stop giving us so many warning shots.” Because those five shots are enough for him to see the scope atop the building across the street, and the trash is making it  _ too easy _ .

He crosses the road in fast strides, building up enough momentum to kick off the base and catch the second floor railing, twist himself onto the landing and give a startled office worker a twisted smirk. 

The fire escape makes him an easy target, but Agon takes it anyway. The trash takes a single shot at him while he does so, a bullet just close enough that it scrapes against one of his dreads. 

Agon snarls, moves faster and lets his fingers squeeze tight, pulling the knuckledusters deeper into the crease of his fingers. There’s a rush under his skin, of delight and of anger, and he exhales it luxuriously.

He’s not fast enough: when he finds only a child’s kaleidoscope and a card taped to the fifth floor landing, he crushes the mocking face of the Devil Bat as he tracks a spiked blond head disappear into the crowd in the streets below.

 

**[00:03] Out of Need**

Here’s the thing: once upon a time, Agon was recruited into the Shinryuji Nagas. He wasn’t interested. But he also wasn’t recruited alone.

“It’s been a while, trash,” Agon greets, letting his body language slip into something more coiled.

The male pressing him down onto the concrete-- skinny as fuck, easy enough to break with a few well placed punches-- smiles with a too wide grin that shows of fucking sharp teeth, and greets, “Fucking dreads.” He’s got a small caliber pistol nestled under Agon’s chin, 0.22 or 0.25 from what Agon can tell.

They both know Agon is letting himself be held down, gun or not.

“Now what do I owe the honor of having the  _ great _ Hiruma visit me in person,” Agon sneers. “Come down from your kingdom of shit at last? Or has it finally toppled under its own fucking weight?”

Hiruma’s smile gets wider, sharper. “Rumor has it that you’ve been bored with the Nagas,” he says nonchalantly. “And if you’re interested I have a job.”

Agon rolls his shoulders, because the trash isn’t wrong, but he’s also not that easy. “You must be desperate if you’re trying to outsource work.”

“Try again, fucking dreads,” Hiruma says. “I need your particular brand of violence.”

Agon pushes off the ground, and Hiruma rocks back on the balls of his feet into a standing position that he’s made graceful over the years. “Interesting.”

“Five hundred up front,” Hiruma says, “surveillance and rifle support as needed. Five hundred more if you keep him crippled in the end.” He’s flicking a disk through his fingers, the taunting fuck, and if Agon knows the other man: the job details will be meticulous, neat and easy, and it will have the most interesting night Agon’s had in months.

“And who is the poor bastard I’m going after?”

Hiruma’s grin drops, and a shiver crawls up Agon’s spine. It’s been three years, but he’s never forgotten what it’s like to work with this man, this razor sharp mind that turned down the Nagas all those years ago. 

“A traitor,” Hiruma says, and nothing more.

 

**[00:02] Out of Nowhere**

The Zokugaku gang are lower than trash, fuckers who aren’t smart enough to realize they aren’t the biggest predator in the water-- they’re just the ones that jump first at the sight of blood. He breaks the leader’s jaw in a swift and brutal impact, catches the next fuckface to slam him into the ground hard enough for a concussion. 

Those who know him will say that he is prone to violence, that the strength that lies coiled in his limbs builds up until he goes on a rampage. They’ll look at the Zokugaku gang and shake their heads at the misfortune of the wounded men to have come across Agon when they did. 

(If Agon thought about it, he might pinpoint the start of the boiling beneath his skin when he saw the Dokugaku leader drag Hiruma towards him, fists tight in the blond’s collar. 

But he doesn’t.)

When they stop moving, Agon walks away. That’s tension relieved already, he thinks, and he tucks his hands into his pockets before encountering a mismatched pair-- a cute girl and a shrimp.

He can’t fucking escape the trash, Agon thinks later, when he looks at the gleam in the shrimp’s eyes and tail of the Devil Bat he can see against both of their necks. 

And later still, when he sees Hiruma watching him, eyes sharp and mouth tight, he says, “The shrimp isn’t even worth poaching.” And he’s not: he’s too skinny, hasn’t put in the “ _ time” _ and “ _ effort” _ to build up muscle to be something useful. The kid is fast, but speed is nothing in the face of power.

Agon isn’t interested, not yet-- let Hiruma grow the baby trash if he wanted.

 

**[00:01] Out of Reach**

There’s a rush that Agon associates with Hiruma, a singular feeling when he outmaneuvers the blond. He hits the blond once, twice, quick jabs that will barely bruise his ribs while the plastic slide of his SIG Sauer beretta cracks against Agon’s nose. The feeling of blood dripping is distracting but he reaches up to crack his nose back into place with a quick wrench. 

The blood he spits on the ground is a taunt, watches Hiruma back up and draw his modified M2. The bullets that spray the ground force Agon backwards, building up the distance between them that Hiruma favors. He ducks into the nearby warehouse, kicking the door shut as he grips the top of the frame, pulls himself up. A breath later, he leaps off the frame to catch one of the exposed beams of the warehouse ceiling. An easy roll sets him atop the beam and out of sight of the door.

The door breaks inwards, and the first person who enters isn’t Hiruma-- is taller and bulkier, his bare arms exposed as he tightens the cloth around his fists.

A fucking hand to hand fighter, part of Agon trills, and he doesn’t stop the grin he can feel tugging up his lips. A hand to hand fighter, and a decent one if Hiruma is sending him in.

A  _ present _ , Agon thinks gleefully, and leaps down to land in front of the man in a crouch. The other man gives him time to stand, waiting patiently-- and it’s weak, foolish for the man not to take advantage. One of those goddamn honor things, Agon scoffs, that’s going to cost this man the fight.

His first kick is dodged but the man fails to see the punch that crashes into his jaw. Agon doesn’t pull his hits, not with an opponent like  _ this _ , and he cracks his fist into the man’s ribs, wants to hear one shatter under the force. When he reaches to do so a second time, the bulky man catches Agon’s shoulder and pushes him down, into a kick that pushes all the air out of Agon’s chest when it contacts.

Agon chokes but grips the man’s elbow before he can disengage, rolling up to deliver a blow to the throat that puts them closer to even ground. 

He catches his breath as he backs up, watches the other fighter warily. Because he recognizes him now, one of Hiruma’s hands. One of the men who take the work that Agon used to do for the tactician, who are so-called family and stand by his side.

The tension sliding under his skin makes his fingers curl a bit tighter into a fist. 

The sound of police sirens make the other male back up, closer to the door, and Agon follows him almost unconsciously, tense enough to strike the other man the minute he drops his guard.

He doesn’t disengage until Hiruma says, “Back up, fucking dreads,” and accompanies the words with the steady sound of gunfire.

 

**[00:00] Out of Time**

“You should have picked a better goddamn guard, trash,” Agon says, eyes locked on the blood dripping past Hiruma’s fingers and heavy smell of iron. He lifts the gun in his hand to the other male’s chest. “One that wouldn’t leaving you bleeding to death.”

“Well,” Hiruma says, grimacing as he bares his sharp teeth, “he was good enough to get me this far.” With his free hand, he pulls up his pistol and aims shakily at Agon’s own chest. 

Agon wants to laugh, a sharp and bitter thing. Instead he pushes closer to the bleeding man’s gun, lets the muzzle stabilize against his chest as he presses his lips to Hiruma’s, slicing his tongue against sharp teeth. The man beneath him exhales into his mouth but reciprocates, their kiss a violent and terrible thing pervaded by the taste of blood. 

When they break apart, Agon backs up enough to meet his eyes.

“Fucking trash,” he says, voice full of something that might be regret.

“Fucking dreads,” Hiruma agrees.

A gunshot. 

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is most welcome! <3


End file.
